Читать книгу The Disgraced Marchioness - Anne O'Brien - Страница 8

The door to the gunroom at Burford Hall, deep in the west wing, opened on to a familiar and industrious scene. A young man in shirt sleeves, corduroy breeches and high-topped boots, all well suited to country life, presented his back to the visitor. A black spaniel at his feet, Lord Nicholas Faringdon leaned with hip propped against a bench on which were all the accoutrements necessary for oiling and cleaning the impressive array of sporting firearms. Head bent, he was intent on freeing the firing mechanism on a particularly fine but unreliable duck gun. He whistled tunelessly between his teeth.

‘So this is how you are spending your time. I might have known it. Planning a day’s rough shooting when you should be overlooking the acres!’

The young man’s head snapped up and turned at the sound of the soft voice. He stopped whistling. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then he abandoned the gun on top of the rest of the detritus on the bench and pushed himself to his feet, a grin warming his features.

‘Hal! I had no idea.’ He approached the gentleman, hand outstretched in formal greeting, and then thought better of it and seized his brother in a warm hug, all the time firing questions. ‘How long it has been! When did you arrive? Have you been back in England long? How long will you stay?’

Returning the embrace with equal enthusiasm, Henry—Hal to those who knew him best—pushed back and the brothers, Lord Henry and Lord Nicholas Faringdon, stood at arm’s length to assess each other. The family resemblance was strong. Both were true Faringdons. Dark hair, almost black and dense with little reflected light. A straight nose, lean cheeks, a decided chin and well-marked brows, they were a handsome pair. But whereas Hal’s eyes were more grey than blue, stern and frequently on the edge of cynical, Nicholas, some three years younger, viewed the world through a bright optimistic gaze of intense blue. Their smiles on this occasion were also very similar, but Nicholas’s mouth lacked the lines of experience, of ambition and sardonic humour that were engraved on Hal’s features.

‘You look well, for all your travels.’ Nicholas gave his brother a friendly smack on his shoulder. ‘Have you made your fortune yet? Is that why you are here, to brag of your exploits?’

‘Not quite.’ Hal shook his head, well used to the ribbing.

‘Ha! I wager you are too fine to have anything to do with a mere landowner now. Faringdon and Bridges, is it not? Should I ask who is in charge of the business? Are you controlling New York yet?’

‘No—and, no, you should not ask! Nat Bridges and I have equal shares and investment in this company. I see you haven’t changed, Nick.’ Henry looked at his brother, noting the faint lines of strain beside his mouth, until his attention was demanded by a nudge against his boot. ‘And who is this?’ He bent to pull the ears of the spaniel who had come to sit at his feet in a friendly fashion.

‘Bess. She’s young, but she’s hopeful. As soon as she stops chasing and scattering the birds rather than collecting them.’

The dog sneezed as if knowing she was under discussion. The two men laughed.

‘Hal. I don’t know what to say to you about all this …’ Nicholas was suddenly sober, as a cloud covering the sun, the smile wiped from mouth and eyes by a depth of sorrow.

Hal shook his head and turned away to run his hand along the polished stocks and barrels of the guns in their racks. It was all so familiar. But now it was changed for ever and he could do nothing about it. ‘Any problems with the estate?’ He kept his back turned.

‘No.’ Nicholas was relieved to return to plain reporting of facts. Emotions at the Hall were still too stark to allow for casual airing. ‘All neatly tied up. The entail stands. There are no inheritance problems and Hoskins had finished his affairs when I was last in London. Thomas always was thorough, of course. He left everything as it should be.’

At that, Hal spun on his heel, his voice and expression harsh with pain. ‘How the hell did it happen, Nick? A riding accident? I have never seen anyone sit a horse better or more securely than Thomas. And he was not even out hunting, if the letters speak the truth.’

‘No.’ Nick frowned at the problem that had faced him for the past few months. ‘He went out across the estate to meet the new agent, Whitcliffe. He never arrived. His horse returned here riderless. Thomas was found later that morning on the edge of the east wood, no obvious injuries, but his neck broken. The horse was unharmed too. It must have shied—a loose pheasant, perhaps—and thrown him. His mind must have been preoccupied and … well, you know the rest.’

‘Yes. Such a tragic waste of a life.’

‘I still can’t believe that he will not walk through that door and ask me if I wish to go …’ Nick’s words dried in his throat as the memories became too intense.

Hal saw and understood. He grasped his brother’s shoulder, with a little shake. ‘I know. Come to the library and tell me about everything. And a brandy would not come amiss, I think.’

‘Yes—of course. And I would wish to know what you have been about.’ Once more in command, Nicholas shrugged into his jacket and followed his brother from the room. As he turned to lock the door to the gunroom, the spaniel fussing round his feet, a thought came to him

‘By the by … have you spoken with Lady Faringdon yet?’

Hal came to a halt and turned, brows arched.

‘Who?’

‘Lady Faringdon. The Marchioness.’

‘You mean Thomas married?’ Hal asked in amazement. ‘I did not know … I had no idea …’

‘Why, yes. And he has a son. Tom—a splendid child. Just a little more than a year old.’

‘Well, now!’ Hal leaned his shoulders back against the panelled wall of the passageway and let his breath seep slowly from his lungs as he felt a ridiculous sense of relief begin to surge through his body. ‘So the child will inherit. He will be Marquis of Burford.’

‘Of course. What else?’ Nicholas eyed his brother quizzically and then his face cleared, became touched with sardonic humour as he realised. ‘You didn’t know! The letters after Thomas’s marriage never reached you. You thought it had all come to you, the title and the inheritance, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Hal closed his eyes at the enormous sense of release from an existence that had taken on the weight of a life sentence. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘And are mightily relieved that it does not.’ Nicholas took Hal’s arm in a sympathetic grasp to urge him in the direction of the library and the brandy.

‘More than mightily. It is something I would never wish for. I will happily be a trustee for the infant, but Marquis of Burford? Not to my taste at all. In America I am now used to being Mr Faringdon. And I like it.’

‘Still the Republican, I see.’ Nick’s tone was dry, with more than a hint of amusement. ‘But you are safe from the inheritance. We sent to tell you of the marriage, of course, not so long after you left. The letters must have gone astray.’

‘Easy enough to do. They never reached me. I had no idea.’ Hal was still half-inclined not to believe this stroke of fortune. ‘Why did Thomas not tell me of his intentions before I left? I thought we were close enough. If he took a bride so soon after I took ship, surely he had already met the lady!’

Nick grinned. ‘I think not, from what I remember. It must have been love at first sight. Or at least a sufficiently strong attraction. Not that you would have noticed particularly—our brother was never one to wallow in sentiment, as you know—but Thomas would have a quick betrothal and carried it all off with high-handed determination.’

‘It must have been a shattering experience for him, to have fallen in love so completely.’ Hal frowned a little. The picture did not quite fit with his knowledge of Thomas, his brother’s overriding interest in sport and hunting to the exclusion of almost everything else.

‘I know it does not sound like the Thomas we knew.’ Nick shrugged in agreement, reading his brother’s thoughts with unnerving accuracy. ‘But come. We will postpone the brandy and I will introduce you to the Widow. I warn you, she is taking Thomas’s death hard, but she is very resilient and will come about. I expect that she will be in the blue withdrawing-room with her mother and the baby at this time of day.’

‘Then lead on.’

They walked through the house in close accord, Hal’s lightness of spirit, in spite of the untimely death of his brother, a shining bright strand woven through the dark skein of grief. He would not have to inherit the estates and the title. Thank God! He could return to his dealings in America with a clear conscience, leaving the care of the property with his fellow trustee Nicholas, who had no objection to rural life. The direction of his life had suddenly come back into clear focus, an enormous weight lifted from his mind. He was all set to be appreciative of and everlastingly thankful to his new sister-in-law who had produced so timely an heir.

‘What is she like?’ he asked Nick as they climbed the main staircase. ‘Is she pretty? Amenable?’

‘Not so. She is a Beauty. A Diamond of the First Water! Thomas showed far more taste than I would ever have given him credit for. But you will soon see for yourself.’

Nicholas opened the door into the blue withdrawing-room, a light attractive space with azure silk hangings that matched and complimented the fashionable blue-and-silver-striped wallpaper. The room had, Hal noted, been newly refurbished, remembering the previous drab greens and ochres of his mother’s occupancy. A fire in the hearth beckoned. Sun glinted on the delicate crystal chandelier and the polished surface of a small piano. It was undoubtedly a lady’s room, a lady of style and exquisite taste.

And the tableau within the room that met the critical gaze of the two men was equally attractive. A young woman was seated on the rug before the fire, her black silk skirts of deepest mourning spread around her. A baby in the experimental stage of crawling was in the act of reaching up to take a red ball from his mother’s hands, then tried to stuff the soft felt into his mouth. A grey kitten curled at their side. The lady laughed at her son, face alight with pride and delight in his achievements; she reached forwards to pick him up and cuddle him against her breast, pressing her lips against his dark curls. The baby chucked and grasped her fashionable ringlets with small but ruthless fingers.

It was a scene to entrance even the hardest of heart.

Then the lady looked round at the opening of the door.

‘Eleanor! I though we would find you here,’ Nicholas began. ‘Can I introduce you …’

The tension in the room was suddenly palpable. It tightened, brittle as wire, sharp as a duelling sword, in the space of a heartbeat. The kitten arched in miniature and silent fury at the appearance of the inquisitive spaniel. The newly widowed Marchioness of Burford, always pale of complexion, became paper white, expressive eyebrows arched, eyes widening with shock, as they fixed on the gentlemen at the door. Her smile of delight for her baby vanished, leaving her still and wary. Lord Henry Faringdon simply froze on the spot, every sense coated in ice, spine rigid. His breath backed up in his lungs.

Nicholas looked from Eleanor to Hal and back again. What in the Devil’s name was wrong here? He had no idea.

For an endless moment Nicholas stood uncertain between the two, his introduction brought to an abrupt and uncomfortable halt. He looked towards Eleanor where she still knelt on the rug for some illumination, brows raised. Once pale, her face was now flushed with bright colour, but he could not read the expression that flitted momentarily across her expressive features. Embarrassment? Perhaps. A flash of anger? But that seemed unlikely in the circumstances. It did not seem to Nicholas that it was grief. There was no enlightenment to be had here.

Meanwhile Hal, he noted, had no expression at all! His face was shuttered, unreadable, his eyes hooded, an expression Nicholas recognised with a touch of trepidation from their childhood and adolescence. His brother was a past master at disguising his thoughts and feelings if he chose to do so and could quickly retreat into icy hauteur. His lips were now firmly compressed. If he had been about to say something on his entrance, he had clearly changed his mind. He continued to stand, rooted to the spot, the open door at his back.

Nicholas gave up and, for better or worse, completed the formal introduction.

‘Eleanor. You must know that this is my brother, Henry. He received our sad news at last and is come to … Well, he is here, for which I am relieved.’ The bland stare from the Marchioness gave him no encouragement to continue. Hal’s enigmatic silence was no better. ‘Hal … this is Eleanor, Thomas’s wife.’

The silence stretched. The tension held.

Then good manners reasserted themselves as if an invisible curtain had been lifted. The lady placed the child back on the rug and rose to her feet with graceful composure, shaking out her ruffled skirts. Hal walked forward and bowed as the lady executed a neat curtsy and extended her hand in dignified welcome. He took it and raised it to his lips. All formal courtesy, appropriate to the occasion, all social graces smoothly applied. So why did Nicholas still feel that the banked emotion in the room could explode at any moment and shatter them to pieces?

‘My lady. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, but I regret the occasion. May I express my condolences. Your loss must be very great, as is mine.’

‘Thank you, my lord. Your good wishes are most acceptable. I miss your brother sorely. You must know that I have received all possible support and kindness from your family.’

All that was proper was expressed with cool, precise formality.

But it was all wrong.

At their feet the child, tired of the red ball and lack of attention, began to fret and whimper. The lady immediately stooped and lifted him.

‘This is Thomas’s son.’ The Marchioness turned the baby in her arms towards the visitors.

Against his will Henry was drawn to approach the child. The Faringdon line had bred true again. The infant had thick, dark curls, which would probably straighten with age. And one day when the chubbiness of babyhood had passed, he would have the fine straight nose and sharply defined cheekbones of his father. Already the dark brows were clear, arching with ridiculous elegance in the infant face. But the eyes. They were not true. They were hers, his mother’s. As clear as the finest glass, as luminous as costly amethysts. The baby smiled and crowed at the attention, stretching out a hand to the newcomer. He had a dimple, Hal noticed inconsequentially as he allowed the baby to grasp his own fingers, smiling against all his intentions as they were promptly gnawed by tender gums.

‘His name?’ Henry had his voice well in hand.

‘Thomas.’ Eleanor did not. Her voice broke a little. ‘He is named for his father.’

Henry stroked the baby’s soft hair, his grief for his dead brother swelling in his chest.

Eleanor immediately stepped back with the child, putting a subtle distance between them. ‘Forgive me—I am a little overwrought and the baby will be tired and hungry. If you will excuse me, I will take him to the nursery.’

She turned away abruptly, never once allowing her eyes to meet Lord Henry’s, and began to walk towards the door.

‘My lady.’ Henry’s words stopped her, but she did not turn to face them as if the open door was a much-desired means of escape. ‘I would request a meeting with you. A matter of business, you understand, as a trustee of the estate.’

‘Of course.’

‘In an hour, perhaps, if that is to your convenience. In the library.’

‘Of course,’ she repeated. ‘An hour.’

The Marchioness left the room, taking the child with her.

Lord Henry’s eyes never left her until her slim figure turned the corner round the sweep of the main staircase.

It was one of the longest hours of the Marchioness of Burford’s life.

After leaving her son with a doting nurserymaid, she paced the fine Aubusson carpet in the library, oblivious to the splendour and comfort around her. The richness of the tapestries that glowed against the panelled wood left her unmoved. The leather bindings of the books with their gold and red tooling might be sumptuous, but failed to catch her eye. The polished oak furniture, well loved by generations of the Faringdon family, went unnoticed. Nor could she sit, not even in a sunny window seat with its view of woods and distant hills and the parterre which she herself was in the process of planting. Nervous tension balled in her stomach. She felt cold, yet her hands were clammy with sweat, even as she wiped them surreptitiously down her black silken skirts.

She had dreaded this meeting, fully aware that it could happen—was almost inevitable to happen—at some time in the future. But she had hoped, prayed even, that it would never come about. Or be so far into the future distance that painful memories would have faded, emotions stilled. And she had deliberately closed her mind to the consequences. But when she had looked up to see him in the doorway, tall and dark and magnificent, it was as if all time had been obliterated. Her heart had leapt. Her pulse quickened and raced before she had sternly reminded herself of the events of the past.

And as she remembered again now, anger flared, all-consuming, raging through her veins so that she trembled with the force of it. He would receive no welcome here from her.

But what would she say to him? Or he to her? On a thought she realised that he was just as shocked as she, more so since he had apparently been unaware of her marriage. At least she had known of the possibility of this meeting and had been able to prepare. From the immediate tensing of his whole body on setting eyes on her, as if facing the barrels of a shotgun, he had been stunned.

She laughed with bitter eyes at her own predicament. You are a fool. You were not prepared at all. It took your breath away to see him again!

But now she had her own secrets to keep, whatever her personal inclination in the matter. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. There was no room for guilt here. She would keep those secrets until the day she died. The only one who had shared them with her, who had understood their significance, was now dead, and she would keep faith with the vows made.

Eleanor set her mind to rule her heart.

When he came to her she was ready, standing before the long window, composed, confident, a glossy layer of sophistication. She would hold this interview on her own terms as Marchioness of Burford.

He closed the door softly, advanced and stood for a moment. They might have been strangers, distant acquaintances at the most, except that at least then he might have put himself out to be sociable. As it was he looked at her with apparent indifference in his cold grey eyes and the stern set of his mouth.

And surveyed her in a detailed assessment from head to foot with an arrogance that chilled her blood.

How right Nicholas had been, he thought. The Marchioness was not pretty. He had forgotten how very beautiful she was. Heart-stoppingly so. All that glossy brown hair with its autumnal tints, caught up in fashionable ringlets. Any red-blooded man would dream of unpinning it, of allowing it to curl in his hands or against his lips. He remembered exactly how it had felt. Her perfect oval face with straight nose and sculpted lips was lovely indeed. Calm and translucent as a Renaissance Ma-donna—until he looked at her eyes. Amethyst fire, fringed with dark lashes, and at this moment blazing with temper and wilful determination. Here was no simpering miss, he acknowledged. The pretty and naïve debutante of his memory had vanished for ever. She was tall. Taller than he had remembered, the crown of her head reaching well past his shoulder. And the black gown, extravagantly fashionable, complimented her elegant figure and the natural cream of her complexion. Assured and polished, she had grown into her new status since he had known her as Miss Eleanor Stamford. His brother had indeed shown excellent taste in his choice of bride.

Eleanor found herself flushing under the sustained regard. It had the whip of an insult and she raised her chin against it but she would not retaliate. She would not!

The silence between them had lasted too long for social correctness. But when the lady almost felt compelled to break it, it was he who did so.

‘My Lady Burford. I believe that you deserve my congratulations as well as my condolences.’ He bowed with cold grace. Another calculated insult. ‘At least I now know the answer to one of the many unsolved mysteries of this world! I have clearly been lacking in my understanding of the driving ambition of some of the members of your sex. I realise that with any real understanding of human nature, I should have been able to work it out for myself.’

‘My lord?’

‘You look surprised, my dear Eleanor.’ Lord Henry’s smile was an essay in contempt. ‘It is simply that I now find it perfectly plain why you chose not to respond to my offer of marriage, in spite of your previous … shall I say, encouragement of my suit. You had your sights set on a far bigger and more important fish in your small pond. And a far richer one.’ The slick of disdain could not quite disguise the underlying pain, but the words had the bite of a lash. ‘I could obviously offer you nothing in comparison. I am sorry that my brother’s death has caused all your planning to go awry, my lady! As widow of the Marquis of Burford, your social position will be far less glamorous than you had plotted and planned for—if my brother had had the consideration to live.’

Eleanor found herself unexpectedly speechless.

Whatever she had expected him to say, whatever tone she had expected him to use towards her, it was certainly not this.

‘I do not understand. You will have to speak more plainly, my lord.’ Eleanor managed with an effort of will to keep her response cool, with none of the confused bewilderment that resulted from his words.

‘I admire your composure,’ he continued in the same conversational tone, ‘but of course you must have anticipated that we would meet again at some point, given the family connection. Unlike myself, who had no notion of what you had achieved in my absence. Did you perhaps expect me to have the supreme good manners not to mention our past dealings? To behave as if nothing untoward had occurred?’

Eleanor reconstructed her thoughts with a little shake of her head, trying to ignore the heavy sarcasm.

‘An offer of marriage, you say? You promised marriage, certainly. And I believed you. But I never received such an offer. It appeared that you had changed your mind.’ She held him in that clear gaze, willing him to deny her challenge. ‘I could wish that you had been sensitive enough to inform me of it. Instead you left me, left the country. No word, no explanation. Nothing. I was forced to learn of your departure from elsewhere. I admit, my lord, I had expected better treatment at your hands.’

‘You have a short memory, my lady.’ He was implacable in his response.

‘I have an excellent memory, my lord! I expected to hear from you. You promised that you would write when you had arranged your passage.’ Eleanor could hear her voice rising as the past flooded back and she fought hard to keep it controlled. ‘And then I was left to learn that you had sailed. To America. With no intention to return in the near future. You obviously had no thought for me at all.’

‘I sent you a letter. Telling you when I would sail. Asking you to join me as we had discussed. I gave you time and place.’ Lord Henry turned from her to stand before the fireplace, the distance between them a little greater. She was so lovely with the sun gilding her hair in an iconic halo. It would be so easy to believe her. And so disastrous if he allowed himself to do so. Besides, he knew that she lied. He clenched his jaw. ‘Don’t deny it. I know the message was delivered to your home. The groom I paid to do it confirmed the delivery.’

‘I received no such letter.’

‘It would certainly be more comfortable for you to hold to that fact, would it not, dear Eleanor?’ Lord Henry struggled to keep his tone flat, conversational even. ‘I would be the first to agree that such problems arise. It is quite possible for letters to go astray, as I discovered only a few hours ago. After all, I had absolutely no knowledge of Thomas’s marriage to you until Nicholas broke the news in the gun room. And yet Thomas had certainly written to inform me of the happy event.’ He picked up a fragile porcelain figure of a shepherdess and lamb from the mantelpiece, contemplated for the barest second smashing it on the hearth, replaced it gently with the utmost control in exactly the same spot. ‘But I know without any shadow of doubt that my letter was delivered to you, allowing you all the time you would need to join me at the vessel. My messenger was most reliable, as you could imagine for so important a delivery.’

‘Such a letter, if it ever existed, never reached my hands.’ She could find nothing other to say in her own defence.

Lord Henry shrugged, a gesture of cynical disbelief. ‘If you insist on holding to that, my lady … Tell me. Did you know my brother before I left, or did you wait until I had gone before you put yourself in his way?’

‘I …’ She could not believe that he had actually said that—that he could think so little of her!

‘It would not be very difficult to lure Thomas into marriage,’ he continued to taunt her. ‘You have a beautiful face, as I know to my cost. And my brother found it easy to trust those he liked.’

‘I never lured Thomas!’ How could the man whom she had once loved more than life itself be so deliberately vindictive?

‘No? But he offered you marriage.’

‘Yes. He did.’

‘I expect your lady mother was delighted. Your family might be respectable enough, but you had hardly been groomed for the role of Marchioness.’ He lifted a hand to sweep the room in an expansive gesture. ‘And here you are, mistress of Burford Hall, a town house in the most fashionable part of London and a hunting lodge in Leicestershire. Quite a killing, my lady.’

‘Of course. It was more than I could ever have dreamed of.’ A frown marred her forehead as she attempted to catch his meaning.

‘You must have been astounded at your good fortune. A Marquis as rich as Solomon in all his glory. Instead of a younger son with uncomfortably Republican leanings and an inclination to make his own way in the colonies.’

So! He thought she had callously rejected him in the interest of wealth and social position. She caught her breath at the injustice of the veiled accusation and stepped towards him with an unconcealed passion.

‘I would have risked everything to go with you if you had told me!’ Her hands curled into fists, at odds with her feminine appearance. ‘My home, my family. I would have followed you anywhere. How can you possibly doubt that?’

Lord Henry raised his brows in eloquent disbelief.

‘Are you possibly making a play for me again, my lady—now that my brother is dead? Is the role of mother of the heir insufficient for you?’ The bitter words were all that he could manage to hide the depth of hurt that still had the power to move him. He had truly thought that it had faded, that he had done with that episode of his life. Now, faced with the reality of her, knowing her rejection, it was as sharp and lethal as ever.

She could hardly comprehend his words. ‘How dare you! How dare you suggest something so degrading—so despicable!’

‘I dare! I dare do all manner of things!’ The past swept back in a submerging wave, allowing anger, frustration, desire, all long subdued, to take hold. A desire to possess her once more filled him and, if he were honest, not a little to punish her for her treachery. She was so beautiful, and she was not his! ‘Did you make a good bargain?’ His demands evaded his control, even when he saw the hurt in her eyes. ‘Could my brother give you pleasure to compare with that which you claimed to find in my arms? Or did you lie to me? And set your teeth when I kissed you or allowed my hands to touch your silken skin? Shall we rediscover what, if anything, was between us?’

He pounced with the lithe strength of a hunting cat on an unsuspecting mouse. His claws might be sheathed, but his dominance was lethal and dangerous none the less. His fine hands grasped her shoulders, holding her when she would have pulled away, but the initial contact startled them both, a tingle of reciprocating fire. He looked down at his hands where they grasped her shoulders. Surely he was over all that. This was not supposed to happen. Not now. Not when he had fought against it for so long, not when he believed her to be guilty of betrayal. He looked up to see her watching him with similar uncertainty, similar shock—but set his mind against it.

He would have taken her mouth with his, hot and demanding, more in punishment than passion, if his attention had not been caught by the jewel that she wore on her breast, a pendant on a fine gold chain. Small and delicate, of no great intrinsic value, yet it was beautiful and wrought by the hand of a craftsman. Its setting was gold filigree, leaves and flowers, the centre of each bloom set with a tiny diamond that glinted in the light with each erratic rise and fall of her breast. The central stone was an amethyst, clear and shining, of a depth of colour that reflected Eleanor’s eyes when she was radiantly happy.

But not at this moment, when her furious glare was the stormy intensity of indigo.

‘So you still wear it?’ Lord Henry’s tone was deceptively conversational.

‘Yes.’

‘It surprises me. Some would say that it was hypocritical not to consign it to the back of a drawer, since you turned your back with such ease on the one who gave it to you.’

‘Perhaps, after today, I will.’ She almost spat the words, shocked to the core by his accusations. ‘I thought the giver had some affection for me, love even. How wrong I was! I should be grateful to you, my lord, for pointing out the error of my ways.’ She angled her head, disdain writ large in her slanted glance. ‘Perhaps I should return it to you. You may find some other naïve lady of your acquaintance in New York to gift it to.’

His tenuous hold on his temper duly snapped.

And he lowered his head, his eyes all the time on hers, until his mouth, hard and angry, crushed her lips. When she murmured a protest, he immediately raised his head, eyes glittering. ‘Had you forgotten, dearest Nell? I thought you had enjoyed it. You did not refuse my kisses in the past.’

He slanted his head to take her mouth again, without kindness or thought for her own wishes, but forcing her lips to part against her teeth. Eleanor stood unresponsive in his hold, until on a breath, and a sob deep in her breast, her resistance melted away, her anger as insubstantial as morning mist. Instead of pushing against his chest to achieve her freedom, her fingers curled into the material of his coat and she clung to him. In response his arms tightened round her until her curves were moulded to his hard length from breast to thigh. Her mouth softened, lips parting of their own free will, to invite invasion. He groaned. And took what she was prepared to give, and more. The fire burned brightly, leaping through their veins with unexpected brilliance and heat, and seared them both.

When he finally released her, the anger had not been assuaged at all, but still surged through his blood, not even calmed when she swayed and would have fallen had she not grasped his forearms for support.

‘Well, my lady?’ For a brief moment he allowed her to see the temper that burned in his gut. ‘What do you think? A title and a fortune balanced against the pleasures of my hands and mouth? I wager that my brother was not lacking in skills of love. But did he satisfy you?’ But then the pain in her eyes, sharp and beyond her control, forced him to retreat. ‘Perhaps he was kinder than I,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps you were wise in your decision after all.’

Confusion swept Eleanor’s features as she pushed herself to stand alone. She could not think, could not accept what had just happened between them, what she had allowed to happen. Humiliation brought its warm colour to her throat and cheeks. She veiled her eyes from him with a downsweep of lashes. Perhaps there was the merest sparkle of a tear, but he could not be sure. But it brought him to his senses as assuredly as a deluge of cold water.

‘Forgive me. I should not have forced myself on you in that manner. It is unpardonable.’ He stepped back from her as disgust rose in his throat at his own temper. And that she should be able to rouse such longings in him again, revealing a weakness that he thought well and truly dead. Disgust at the betrayal of his body, which was hard and demanding for her. He now kept his voice low, but with no warmth in it, simply cold acceptance of the situation. ‘You would seem to have a talent for falling on your feet, my lady. I am not available to you. But I should warn you. Keep your clever velvet claws out of Nicholas.’

The lady flinched as if he had slapped her with the outrageous comment. ‘I will not continue this conversation.’ Eleanor choked on a sob. ‘I can only be grateful that fate spared me marriage with you, my lord. I could never have guessed at your capacity for inflicting such pain.’ She swept past him, but when she had reached the door his voice stopped her.

‘Eleanor?’

‘Well?’

‘I would be interested to know if you managed to persuade my brother that you were a virgin on your wedding night.’

Her whole body stiffened under the vile cruelty of the attack. She dare not face him again for fear that he would see the tears that had begun to track down her cheeks.

‘The matter is entirely none of your affair,’ she managed in a voice little more than a whisper.

‘Of course not, my dear. You are not my affair any longer. And I thank heaven for it. And by the by, there is no need for you to be concerned. I shall not divulge our sordid little secret to anyone. I believe it is not to the credit of either of us. We must preserve your spotless reputation at all cost, must we not?’

On which vicious parting shot, the composure of the Marchioness of Burford finally disintegrated. She wrenched open the library door to hurry from the room, slamming it forcefully in Lord Henry’s face.

His lordship merely stood, head bowed, eventually returning to stare blindly into the empty fire-grate, until moved to kick viciously against a half-charred log with his booted foot.

Well done indeed!

His intention had been to pursue the interview with icy and disinterested detachment. So how the Devil had he allowed himself to make such unwarrantable comments? To inflict such blatant intimacies on her, uncaring of her wishes in the matter? A despicable act, unworthy of his birth and upbringing. Conflicting emotions and images warred within his brain. Of course she deserved every accusation. Had she not rejected and humiliated him, casting his love into the gutter as so much worthless trash? Her promises of love, protestations of devotion and a willingness to throw in her lot with him, had been shallow and empty. Instead, she had chosen worldly ambition. How fickle women were! And yet … the horror in her face when he had accused her of perfidy demanded his attention. The hesitation in her voice. The tightening of the muscles along her jaw as she had striven, unsuccessfully in the end, to prevent tears gathering in those glorious eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She had not been unmoved by his words. Or by his demands on her body. He closed his eyes as he remembered the scent of her hair, the taste of her lips as they responded to his insistent possession. But then, women were skilled actresses after all.

But what did it matter? Lord Henry straightened, stretching, allowing the muscles in his shoulders to relax as his pulse slowed. He had not realised that he had been so tense. He walked slowly to follow the Marchioness from the library. It was all in the past. She had what she wanted. The inheritance was secure with an heir, albeit very young. Nicholas would more than willingly play the interested uncle and trustee. He was now free to return to America and wash his hands of the whole situation in England unless something unforeseen arose to demand his presence in the future. He need trouble himself no further over Eleanor Faringdon.

And in the short time remaining to him here at Burford Hall, he would treat her with all that damnable courtesy and good manners worthy of a gentleman. Whatever the cost!